Personal
by Jazzola
Summary: Everything has someone personal to them, something that affects them right to the very tissue of their heart, the centre of their soul. And these are those things for Alex, Shaz, Chris, Ray and Gene. T for self-harming.


Everything has something personal. Something that affects them right to the very tissue of their heart, the centre of their soul.

For Alex Drake, that thing was her daughter.

Every night, she still dreamed of her. Now that she knew Molly was safe and that her daughter and her would never be reunited, she watched her in her dreams, seeing her getting up to start a new school day, Evan running her to school in the car, doing her work, laughing with her friends. But she also watched the new Molly. The Molly who had a novel sadness in her eyes, and a dark sorrow on her face when nobody was looking, who jumped at loud noises and clung onto her godfather as though he was all she had left in the world.

Alex wondered if Molly would do the same thing if she knew what he had done when Alex was a little girl.

Every night, she watched her baby going about her normal life. She cried for her lost child, but she also celebrated with her as she got her first A grade, and cheered for her when she made friends with a young girl who had been a victim of child abuse and had been shunned by the rest of the class, almost speechless at the lovely girl her daughter had grown into.

But most of all she simply tried to get to know her little girl. All her funny little habits, her trademark expressions, the way she spoke, the mannerisms and the tendencies that she hosted in herself, in her personality.

At least, this way, she could be close to her.

* * *

For Shaz Granger, that thing was equality.

All her working life- and her life before that- Shaz had been the victim of sexism. Boys at her school had sneered at her for being bright, saying that only men could be in the police force when she revealed what she wanted to do with her life in a careers lesson aged twelve. The way they simply judged her on her gender, not her personality or how bright she was, made her so angry that some days it was all she could do not to stand up and punch them in the faces and show them how much pain a _girl _could inflict.

But she knew that wouldn't work, and over time the anger grew and evolved into a deep thirst to show people how good she really was. She worked so hard at her schoolwork the teachers asked if her parents were doing her work for her. When she joined the police force, having been refused by her father the chance to go to university, she volunteered for anything, performing her duties with a religious determination, taking every care with them, doing them to the best of her considerable abilities.

Really, it was a crime that she wasn't in CID within weeks.

But she was always treated as a member of CID by its head. Although she was constantly making tea- and hated it- and he did sometimes snipe at her- although she was always proved right later- and he didn't promote her- although sometimes it didn't seem to matter- Gene Hunt included her as part of his department.

And that gave her the opportunity to prove to them what she was really capable of.

And do that she would, given half the chance.

* * *

For Chris Skelton, that thing was Shaz.

From that first meeting in CID, when he'd tripped over a chair leg and she'd helped him up, Chris had known there was no girl in the known world quite like Shaz. Gutsy, clever, brave, affectionate, kindred and funny, with a wit that could knock Ray Carling out for six and a sense of humour that could have belonged to a stand-up comedienne, she truly was everything he'd dreamed of and more.

She might not have been a Page Three girl. But Chris was more than content to leave those to Ray. In his eyes, she was beautiful: huge, chocolate brown eyes with a mane of thick jungle-like lashes; smooth, porcelain skin, contoured in just the right places, glowing in the light whenever she turned her head towards him; plump, rounded lips, a beautiful sensuous shade of pink; shining, perfectly black hair, silky and thick; an hourglass figure that, whilst not being anything too amazing, was beyond enough for him. The girl was something of a miracle, and that she loved him back blew his mind out every time he thought about it.

He tried hard not to think of the Gil Hollis case whenever his eyes rested on that smooth stomach.

His beautiful Shaz lying dead before him on a grimy pavement, his DI desperately trying to bring her back, pumping at her chest, blood soaking into the tarmac as DCI Hunt held him back from destroying the man he thought had destroyed his perfect girl.

It featured regularly in his nightmares, and every time he would wake up with sweat soaking from his burning skin, as though his whole body was consumed in hellfire with just the thought of losing her.

He knew he would give up anything for her.

* * *

For Ray Carling, that thing was explosions.

He knew he was a police officer, and that he was a man, he had to be strong. But ever since that car bomb back in '73, he couldn't bear being near anything that produced a loud bang.

Cars backfiring made his fists clench and his heart jump into his throat. Gunfire he could bear, as long as he could feel the cool sheen of the gun in his own hand and know that it was from him. Anything to do with bombs and he was a quivering wreck inside, a barely-composed bundle of nerves on the outside.

The first time it had happened, with some bomb at a scrapyard set by some local kids, he had expected Gene to tell him to grow some balls, or get over it because he wasn't a big girl. He had been surprised when his DCI had instead directed him to the car and told him to radio the desk sergeant and ask for the fire service to be directed to the yard, not a hint of teasing or patronising in his voice. He had almost been… respectful to him. As though he could understand.

And that echoed in Ray's head more than anything. Gene Hunt, the Manc Lion, the Supreme Ruler of Fenchurch East, the Guv, could empathise with his phobia of explosions?

He knew that everybody got scared sometimes. He had seen Gene biting down on his lip in anxiety, seen the silver-blue eyes widened with dread, but he had never really seen him afraid. Maybe under everything, Gene got scared as well.

And maybe that made being scared OK.

He certainly wasn't going in for counselling sessions with his nutter of a DI anytime soon.

* * *

For Gene Hunt, one of those things was drugs.

He had watched, as a young boy, as his own brother destroyed himself and their mother with drugs, forcing the revolting substances into his veins or up his nose, coming into the house almost paralytic with the high he was on and then refusing to move in the mornings, his euphoria over. The way it had slowly torn him apart, replacing the smile of the young boy he had known and loved with the sneer of the addict, the wide, helpless, bloodshot eyes, the shaking demeanour of someone who knew they were beyond help.

And it had hurt so much Gene hadn't known what to do with all the hurt.

Directing it at the world helped. But it could only do so much. He knew he was a bastard, but couldn't help it. Sometimes he directed it at himself. That didn't help at all; that only made it worse. He could remember long nights of sitting on the side of the ancient bath tub, letting it dig into his flesh, drawing long cuts along his arms and legs. It hadn't eased anything, hadn't soothed the monster in his chest.

So instead he'd directed it at the people he fought during national service. Although he hadn't been the most committed soldier. Right from the start he'd known that hurting other people wasn't the way forward.

Helping people, then, was the only option he had left.

And being a policeman, and solving crimes, and being able to look the spouse of a murder victim or a young girl who had been raped or a mother who had lost her child in the eye and tell them that the person who had hurt them so much was behind bars, never to trouble them again, seemed to finally gag the monster and quell the fire spouting from its mouth. It gave him a sense of completion that he couldn't find in anything else, and his department were like the family he'd never been allowed, the mates he had found so hard to make, and the drinking buddies who could bundle him into the back of his car and take him home after one too many.

Although he probably would admit that he had a drink problem, Gene was determined never to let the drink own him like it had owned his father. For him, it was recreation; for his father, it had been a lifeline.

And Gene was never, ever going to let himself become his father.

Because that was his second thing.

* * *

A/N: I hope you like it! Please review and tell me what you thought, and thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! Jazzola :)


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